…or something. Yes, today matters because Kentucky and Nebraska and Texas and other super progressivist states will now have to get down on their knees and celebrate gay love together. Like in a big willing gay orgy. Naha. Not much more to be said though.
Last night, I got a shocking wave of anger rushing through my spine, one that almost got me to get up and pour out the poison onto my clavier. But then I chose to hit the kitchen for greasy food. Hey, you can’t give up all your dirty little mood stabilizing habits, can’t ya. Why thy anger, one might ask.
In case you didn’t know (and then, clearly, you and I must become friends) it’s fashion week in Paris right now. But that’s no surprise, as it’s always fashion week somewhere. Here it comes. It’s PFW as they say, and Louis Vuitton Homme made a fucking embroidered satin jacket with a Louise Bourgeois piece.

Colette

I purposely left an extra blank space here. Like a brain pause. Like my brain and heart both need a minute, and a double space to continue. Because it gets worst. People LOVED it. They love that shit.
I’ve been reading lots on gender theory lately. And yesterday, the pages I read from Kate Bornstein’s Gender Outlaw brought forth the danger of the split between « us » and « they » - given, in a trans spectrum context. How seeing the trans community as a whole, vs. a a rich world of nuances, was allowing more of the segregating way of thinking inside of it. Quick and simplified example. Wait. No. I got it wrong. Or to say it better, that’s what I made of what I read yesterday. The actual idea Bornstein evoked was, the hierarchy inside a then young M2F trans community (book was written in 94) - how post operative transsexuals were looking down on pre-operative ones, and so one till we get to the bottom, the closet cases.

My point is. That fucking Louise Bourgeois jacket. There truly is an « us » and a « them » here. And if not, let me create it. Inside my group, I will take in people who will at the very least question such things as an artist’s integrity being raped by their own trusts/estates, entities so thirsty for money and power they would sell anything to anyone. No, kidding, not anyone. Preferably corporations able to bring in tons of K$.
And I’ve been a prime witness of such incidents three times in the past few months. Three fucking times. Thrice. Like, Judas, twice, thrice you know. By witness I mean, artists I personally knew or know (one is still alive) are being so despicably used and sold to the highest bider. That’s how you end up with studios saying they found more sculptures from back when the artist was still alive, when they have actually recently been made. Obviously, and that’s what really sucks today, I can’t even name names. Because it won’t help the good people who are still sitting at the table of trusts, trying to prevent such shit to happen.
In the case of Louise, just to mention this one. My girlfriend, last night, a witness of my anger and hurt, said to me: « But you KNOW. You are one of the few people who had a relationship with Louise. And a real intense one. So let them be. You KNOW. » And you know what? Fuck yeah. I did meet Louise when I was just a kid. And our bond was oh so special. Our weird phone conversations that I barely recall the content of. That black glitter hat with red hearts she gave me. And her book, of course. That’s what matters. There is a you and there is a me. And I’m so glad. Because I will happily let you have an aw moment for that meaningless piece of fabric she would DEFINITELY not have approved of, because I will forever have my sweet, so sweet and so personal memories of her. Embrace the business of art and fashion like your life depends on it. In my group, we don’t need any of that. Because we care about deeper truths.
We expect and wish for more. We make the effort (which is more of a joy) to look for that more. To read, look at, compare, write, and meet. Who did you meet recently? Like, really meet? Who did you look at, and took the time to listen to, and try to understand?

Besides all of this, let me come out completely: I love Miley Cyrus. And to celebrate one thing with another, completely unrelated (or?) let’s listen to some vapor.

I’ll go straight to the point. Of all the different forms of art, performance would be my least favorite. Not because of its lively aspect. More because it’s usually very, very bad. Ok fair enough, I can’t just say it sucks and be done with it. I need to explain why I think it more than often does. What does bad mean and entail in performance?

First of all. Let’s be clear. Paintings, photographs, videos, sculptures, and everything else people « make » can also more than often suck. It’s empty, flat, boring, unappealing aesthetically, and so on. Why is performance so disturbing? Why does it often look vain, fake, pretentious, ridiculous, and over-played? Besides the answer « because it is »? Well. Maybe, just maybe. Because performance in itself can be such a powerful form of art. And when it does go bad, for a number of factors, objective or subjective, it hits you in the face even harder than a painting would. What’s the one factor in a performance you don’t get in any other form of art? Duh, a person. Ok, or an animal or a machine (which my auto-correct replaced my « mating »… Makes you think, doesn’t it?) What you are asked to face is a person. And a person not just as creator, but as creation. And what makes us react more than a person acting out in a fucked up way, or saying or impersonating or showing stuff that’s just weird, or random, or sometimes brilliant? Of course, artworks other than performance can be powerful too, and can leave us thoughtful, disgusted, and any kind of emotion you find in the wide spectrum of feelings and reactions. But the power of a human being, that’ll always dominate.

Which makes me think and wonder… Why do I look at Marina Abramovic’s recent performances not as such but rather as slightly pathetic artsy celebrity acting out? What makes me feel embarrassed on her behalf when I look at her engaging in an eye combat with Jay-Z, when others scream out of their lungs « genius! » Her work used to rise from inside and poured out of her being through the act of performing. That’s if, like me, you look at energy as a tangible, palpable entity. Energy, creative force, talent, message, are all synonyms - you know, the same way we refer to God saying life force, energy, creator, Life, Nature, Earth, high power and so on. Funny how much of the lexical field of one can be found in the other…

Paul McCarthy, he’s a good one. Over the summer, my girl took me to Monaco to see one of his performances. We got there, walked in the gallery where her friend was working, only to find out it had got cancelled. We did end up spending 24 hours in St Paul de Vence, one of my absolute favorite place on earth, so, win win? Back to his work, back to NYC, and back to 2013. WS was beyond intense. Violent, authoritative, decadent gone wrong, sordid in many ways. Yet. Yet so enjoyable. The deranged and human part of us that rejoices in filth and voyeurism and pain put on the side, I thought it was glorious (yo Adri) because it did highly disturb me. I walked around the Armory space sensing how the longer I stayed the more I was being degraded and misused. Clearly, that would be my own projected fantasies and unconscious talking. I hated it. Which is why I loved it. It forced itself onto me, made me confront my weird hidden sentiments and views. It made me feel alive, regardless of how unpleasant that was. It was good because it fully engaged « me ». I wasn’t there to justify the art and the artist by my simple presence. Let me double this. My presence wasn’t put to profit to only be used as a compliment or « raison d’etre » for the performer or installation or piece or creator or whatever. The piece grabbed me by the ass (yeah, it kinda of did) and forced me to immerse in it as the viewer. The deliciousness of the purgatory. My bad. The deliciousness of hell.

Speaking of hell. I was in the subway yesterday. No, that’s not it. Stop interrupting. I was in the subway, changing trains at 14th street. Thank God (you’ll see the irony there) my girlfriend hasn’t been a New Yorker for that long, so she’s not as blasé as the rest of us. And when she hears music in the subway, she turns her head to see what it’s about. Thank God she did. Because there it was. The perfect performance. Happening under ground. To the rhythm of some disco pop tune, a guy was giving it all. He was wearing a red sequin thong. A pair of devil horns. And had already taken off a zebra-patterned shirt. He was dancing in a circle. Then the guy next to us, in his late 50’s, started talking to me. Sweet Christ. He said « we » should call the cops. Because « this (was) a serious offense. » Like, it was « blaspheme. » Hu? Oh, you mean, because he’s dancing and acting super gay and wearing a red shiny thong and has a devil horns headband? Oh, oh, I get it. Because on top of it all, his choreography involves a Christian cross? Yeah but it looks so good man. I’m not calling the cops. This is the best piece of art (dance is art too, remember) I’ve seen all week. Given, it’s only Monday. His name is Qween Amor btw, and he’s got very interesting things to say about what he does.

Money. But like, big money. Cash. Wires. Transactions. Exchange rates. Safe. Switzerland. Investment. Tax returns. Money laundering. Speculation. So far, this could be a basic list of finance stuff. But those are words (and actions) that have become very, very central to the art world. And who says art world, today, necessarily implies auction houses. Which reminds me of Sarah Thornton and her « Seven Days in the Art World. » A few days ago, we got to read in The Guardian what one of the most talented, collected, and respected contemporary artist had to say about money and its committed relationship to Art. In the article, Gerhard Richter contemplates, a bit powerless as he admits, how the market has taken absolute control over quality and artistic monetary value of a work. And from the mouth of Richter: « No one who had bought his works in recent years, he said, had ever contacted him to show an interest in him or his work, implying that they were only interested in the work’s investment value. He confirmed that often his works were among those bought as safe, tax-free capital investments and stored in art bunkers in east Asia or Switzerland. Richter said he had resigned himself to the fact that “hardly any one talks about art any more. Even in the arts pages of the broadsheets. » But I won’t bother you with a short re-write. The full version is much more striking: click here to read. It did leave me quite happy and relieved to see more and more people from the art world rally around the thought that what is happening is, indeed, fucked up. Martin Roth, director of the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, also joined in, giving the following advise to people who’d want to know more about the art world: « Don’t listen to art advisers. Come to Museums. » Because, what is at the center of the art world… Wait. No. What IS the art world, is art. ART. That spells A, R, T. Not M, O, N, E, Y.

I used to be out every single night of the week. And weekends, too. Needless specify, I dont remember it all. That was before. Now, to have me leave my home sweet home, in the midst of NY winter, you’d better have something good to offer. I got an email friday, a casual invitation to a video art show. Forgot about it, then thought on monday afternoon: I should definitely leave the house, and get some (freezing as hell) air. I mistakenly had in mind the performance was at the Blank Space thing. Until my girlfriend, Clarisse, exclaimed that the nail salon we were going to was so fucking cool. Wait, what? Had I known before getting ready it was a nail salon hosting the night, and curating it, I’d probably would have blamed it on the cold and not go. I did make a comment just that day on how bad it was that so many stores and cafes and magazines were now turning into art galleries « once in a while. » I’m okay when proven wrong though. Vanity Projects nailed it. Sorry, the word game really was unintentional. Why, and how was it so different from every other space thinking they should add the art trend component to their business?

In theory, I am thrilled that more and more people feel like they « get » art, and so go see art shows - in galeries, museums, fairs, and elsewhere. But it saddens me to notice that the main drive isn’t art itself. The viewer being viewed viewing. That’s the focus. Which, could be a form of art in itself. Which would demand panache, questioning, and doing. Creating. Thinking. Talking. And listening.

I revendique elitism in art. And people then assume I’m just another art snob. And I let them. ‘cause I can be. But let me tell you this. My standards for elitism are not the ones you’d imagine. The elite I wish art spoke to and was destined to, is one bonding around the fairly disregarded, mistrusted, and despised notion of kindness. Don’t get me wrong: I LOVE power. Power seeking is such a major thrill in (my) life. But what type of power? Again, not the one you’d figure yourself. One achieved by stepping on people’s head, or found in the incessant mirror-like back and forth gaze, repeating one same empty praise to one another to feel better about one's achievements: not it. A power that considers kindness as a flaw: still not my type. However. Being brave enough to show honesty of emotions, honesty of showing yourself like you are, honesty of being yourself, honesty vs pretending to be, that’s more like it. My elitism is one of the heart. One of finding, (re)uniting, and celebrating people’s pure love for (the) art(s). And I don’t care if it sounds absolutely corny or naive. Because it’s everything but. Why? Yes! Another question. I love to explain why. What’s a pure love for the arts? One where the hashtag isn’t, like I’ve been seeing it lately, #hypenomatterwhat. Or #hypeatwhateverthecost. Seriously. If you think about it… It’s kinda ironic that after everything that our contemporary history (‘cause who cares about modern, or even classic) has to say, as one kind, the human kind, we now, again, and perhaps more than ever, need to remind ourselves that’s it’s fucking more than okay to be who we are. My own hashtag of choice would be a diptych. #beyou #betrue. The power of being human - as in, showing qualities of « humanity » for the self and others, is my kind of power. And so, it seems like my elitism is a close neighbor of the battle between being true vs being seen.

Back to last night. Vanity Projects was having a nail art night, presenting a performance and video pieces by Martin Guttierez and his alter ego, Martine. It was so good because it was so sincere. Also because Guttierez's work in its whole has much to do with the question of gender - and is approaching the matter with a poetic and almost melancholic delicacy. What’s so delicate about a man dressing (almost) as a woman and dancing to his/her own music, to simplify greatly? His imagery. Of course, you can make parallels and find references of others in his work - we all come from somewhere. But much to my delight, that’s not the first thing you see. The first thing I saw, and was allowed to react to, was Martine. Pure and simple. No game of power transpired from the performance. The performance was all about… the performance. That’s why.

There’s no time to waste. Yes, there are that many stories to relate - I suddenly feel backlogged. So please allow me. That’s the way I’ll do it. I’ll tell it like it is. Like it happens to me, on a daily basis. As this world is my own. It’s my birthplace, my love place, my work place, and my own little hell, at times. But this hell is oh so entertaining. The perks of being a true insider; I get to hear, see, and experience all of that art frenzy with a very sharpened mind. So much you’re missing out on. So why not share it with you, rather than regularly give myself heart attacks.

To hell with it. You want personal, that’s as personal as it gets. I’ll do my best no to fall to the other side: over sharing vulgarity. My mom is Francoise. She is a painter. She also was a dancer. At the Crazy Horse, of all places. The cabaret that presents « the most beautiful women », see? Yeah. Harry, my dad, liked it too. He is a writer, a publisher, an art publisher, ran and owned art galleries in Paris and NYC, and started out as an assistant professor of philosophy in the 70’s. He’d get kicked out of the professors’ lounge as he looked too young, and his hair was way too long for him to be a serious person. That’s my direct family tree. No bros, no sis, thank god.

I’ve always been too young in age for whatever it is I’ve been doing. That’s what I’ve been told over and over and over. Not that it ever stopped me in any way. I started writing by accident, if you believe in those. Evidently, I, don’t. Actually no, here it is: I was published for the first time by accident. That’s more like it. I was 15. I had shadowed Harry to some big shot early art party, where he’d be making very irreverent jokes -his favorite kind- to people who either found him hilarious and acutely intelligent, or plain nuts. He’s a bit of both, if you ask me. Sophie Calle was there. We spoke to each other. I have no memory of what her words were, but I do remember my deep and violent anger after the short conversation. She had no humor. No self derision. And her self-centeredness couldn’t hide a serious lack of… On to the next. Natalie was there too. She was (still is, perhaps) working for an art review, Area. She had been trying to get Harry to write a story for them, the theme of the upcoming issue being parties. And all of a sudden, I am the one being asked to write the story. He had passed it on to me. Just like that. I did it. I wrote the story. I thought the only thing I’d love about it would be to see my name printed in a magazine. That didn’t do it for me. I stayed soft. But super fucking turned on by the writing process, I was. And by being published, and so young. That really did it for my little effervescent and aroused teenage ego.

For the longest time - I’m 28, so a little less than that- I’d follow Harry to those private viewings, gallery openings, after gallery opening dinners, and business meetings with poets, writers, and top-selling contemporary artists. I don’t even need to exaggerate. I’m talking about Tom Wesselmann, Chuck Close, Robert Ryman, or Helen Frankenthaler, to name a few. The latest strongly disliked me. Oh, the 90’s. I was 6 or 7 years old, and after I had told her I liked this (or that) painting a lot, she replied looking at my father: what does a 6 year old understand about art? In your face, kiddo. It’s no surprise I feel like I belong the most when surrounded by people in their 50’s though. And that hasn’t changed for as long as I can remember. My girlfriend is close to that age too. I’ll brag for one second. She is so fucking hot. Her intelligence, her kindness, yeah and her looks too, are the biggest turn-ons ever. But I’m losing my point. I have always loved those people. Loved them for being so raw, impertinent, and for never apologizing when they spoke their truth. See where I’m going with that?

Dear « art world », how did you manage to let go so easily of all that mattered? I could make that previous sentence a bit less dramatic, but drama is my best bet to get you hooked. Let me sum it up this way: what the fuck is wrong with you? Let’s dive in.